


7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days

by TMBlue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 19:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TMBlue/pseuds/TMBlue
Summary: Hermione tries to cope with life after Ron's death, but what if all she thought she knew about what happened to him so many years ago was a lie?





	1. 6 Years, 1 Month, 12 Days

**6 Years, 1 Month, 12 Days  
Thursday, June 24, 2004**

"Why don't you order something else?"

The tall man with sandy blond hair who sat across from Hermione gestured toward the bar, encouraging her with a grin. She looked down at her almost empty wine glass, swirling the contents around, eyes blurring out of focus for a second before she shook her head.

"I should go home soon, Duncan," she said, in a low voice, possibly making it difficult for him to hear her under the sounds of the music and loud conversations around them. The pub was busy for a Thursday night. But he must have figured her out enough to make a guess, even if it was the wrong one, because he took a long swig of his beer and reached for her hand.

"I'll take you back."

Her stomach gave a lurch, and she squeezed his hand out of reflex, the wrong response, she realised, because it only made him think she wanted him more.

"I think I should go alone," she said, chest clenching at his mildly frustrated expression.

"Why do you keep seeing me then?" he asked, possibly a bit more spitefully than intended. He wasn't a bad person, really. She should explain, only she couldn't. She'd probably never be able to.

"Don't do that," she sighed as she stood, tossing Muggle money to their table and taking his arm to lead him outside.

The still summer air was scorching and humid, even well past midnight, and she willed herself not to recall _that_ night, that last night in _his_ bed before-

"I really don't understand you," Duncan said, interrupting her thoughts, reminding her all too quickly of her present reality. The cool sheets of her bed were what she needed now… solitude and silence.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wouldn't blame you if you were done-"

"Just think about what you want, Hermione."

God, if only he knew the weight of such a statement, the sinking feeling that consumed her. She couldn't trust her voice, so she let go of him and nodded, moving quickly to duck behind a row of trees, turning on the spot with a sharp crack.

Her dark room swam into focus as her feet touched the floor, and she released the breath she'd held from Apparating, toeing off her heels and reaching for the hem of her dress with shaking hands, pulling it off over her slender, mildly malnourished body and dropping it to the floor. In only her bra and knickers, she slid into bed, curling onto her side, legs tucked up, reaching for an extra pillow to clutch tightly to her chest and face, stifling her shaky breathing through cotton and feathers. That familiar, painful lump lodged deep in her throat, and she fought against tears as long as she could… until she no longer cared, gripping the top of her pillow like the shaggy ginger hair at the top of his head, digging her nails into the memory of his scalp.

* * *

It had been a month since he'd woken up. He knew, because after those first few days, he'd decided he ought to keep track. He'd lost six fucking years to darkness. The reality was as distant as the sound of his own name from the lips of the man who had found him, the one who had gripped his dirty ginger hair in a tight fist to raise his aching head from the stone slab they'd called his resting place.

"It really worked," the man had said. "It fucking worked!"

It had taken Ron Weasley three weeks to understand this statement and piece together the moments that had changed his life irreversibly.

Now, all he could do was replay that final day of freedom, six years ago, desperate to find a weakness or a clue, some way to orient himself to _this_ place… _this_ time. His desire was singular. He had to escape. No one was looking for him, not now. He would not be saved.

Harry and Hermione thought he was dead. His whole family, everyone… thought he was dead.

Some days he even thought so himself, steel walls and no way out, no windows, no time, no outside light, no wand. Other days, he thought he would make it, because it was the only thing he could think and still open his eyes all the way, still find strength.

It had been a peaceful spring afternoon, those six short years ago. They'd won a war, lost so many, but she was holding his hand and not letting go. The sky was bright and nearly cloudless as he'd told her some small version of how she made him feel. They'd left the Burrow in the middle of May, and he'd held a confidence he couldn't share just then, that she was bloody brilliant and would absolutely find her parents, set them straight. He'd be with her, every moment she'd let him, and, together, they would bring them home.

But, as they'd approached their Portkey, alone, her hand was trembling in his, and he hadn't wanted her to feel the boundless pressure he knew consumed her even more virally when she thought someone believed in her too strongly. Her confidence was built now by silence and presence, two things he'd been discovering he was actually bloody good at. At least that's what she'd told him, over and over, stroking his hair with small fingers, erupting gooseflesh across his shoulders, down his spine.

And so, as he'd squeezed her hand once more, he'd leaned down to press his lips to hers, drawing back just in time to reach forward, together, to touch the cracked vase that had been made into a Portkey to Sydney.

The world had swam out and back into focus. Too quickly. Her hand had loosened in his, and he'd lost her grip completely, immediately realising that something had gone terribly wrong. His chest had suddenly caved, as if he'd been kicked, and he'd recognised the feeling as a stunning spell as he'd helplessly watched her fall to her back, on the ground, in the middle of the dense woods where they had been wrongly transported. He'd tried to open his mouth to scream, but no sound had come out, and he'd been frozen… then roughly dragged backward, away from her, by someone he hadn't been able to see.

His limp hand had fallen so close to his back pocket, and he'd frantically willed his fingers to move, to reach for his wand. But he'd been forced down a slope and out of her sight, listening in paralysed fear to the sounds of her panicked coughing before-

"RON!"

Every curse he knew had flown through his brain, willing _anything_ to wordlessly work. He'd heard the shuffling of several sets of feet behind him, and he'd become aware of an argument between two or three people before he'd tried to blur his vision, focused on forcing one word to the front of his mind, over and over.

_Stupefy!_

The hand clutching the back of his jumper had fallen immediately slack, and Ron had felt his body go weightless as he'd no longer been supported.

"Graham!" another nearby voice had shouted.

It had _worked_.

But Ron had quickly been caught by two large men rushing forward, and he'd finally been able see their ruddy, filthy faces. They'd scowled at him, and he'd known he had to be quick as they’d searched him for his wand.

_Hermione. Hermione._

"RONNN!"

"Stop the girl," one of the men had demanded, just as Ron had regained the use of his left foot. He'd dug his heel into the dirt and strained against the effects of the stunner, finally forcing a hand into a fist.

And then, he'd seen it, lying on the forest floor… the body of a man who, at first glance, looked so much like him it was staggering. A man who had been burned to death, his face and skin black and charred. But, his hair… ginger and ashy and cut just like Ron's.

"Get his wand, Charlie. Now!"

_Stupefy. STUPEFY._

But it had been too little too late. He'd felt his wand roughly yanked from his back pocket, and, before he'd braced himself, he'd watched as yet another man had rushed forward with a rock the size of his head... and he'd slammed it down, hard.

The world had gone instantly, terrifyingly, black.

He could remember nothing after that moment. Nothing… until that stark, hollow day, six bloody years later, when he'd opened his eyes to the sight of a man he'd thought he'd almost recognised, watching him with wide eyes.

The next few hours had blurred with words, disbelief predominating as they'd told him how long he'd been asleep. That everyone thought he was dead. And their plan had worked, somehow, even years later. The most important part of this information was the brief mention of Hermione, the perhaps accidentally revealed fact that she was alive and well. A deep relief flowed through him, even in his desperate situation. All that ever mattered was her, Harry, his family. He could do anything now, knowing they were alright. His captors had only meant for Hermione to witness the attack, see the body they'd planted, report it as Ron, spread the word. They had never expected the blow to his head to put him in a bloody six year long coma, but they'd waited… and, now, he was back. Awake. Alive.

He'd learned that the man who had hit him was dead, had been murdered for fucking up their scheme. It had taken another week to learn the reason for their elaborate method of kidnapping, faking his death… He was meant to belong to them now, a tool for their use. They'd touched his scars, the ones that ran in swirls over his forearms from his run-in with those bloody brains in the Department of Mysteries, so many years ago.

They'd told him he would "meet her soon," and he'd been waiting. Waiting and thinking and planning and memorising. Every movement they made, every word they said… he would find a way out. He would find a way home.

* * *

The vividness of her nightmares never ceased to surprise her.

Hermione was standing in front of her bathroom sink, brushing her teeth with a shaking hand, staring at her reflection and reciting her most recent presentation for work inside her head, on loop, as a furious distraction. The healers said she should be better than this by now, not still seeing such clear visions of his unrecognisably burned face and body, singed hair, charred wand in his hand… But they were wrong, she supposed. The guilt would sometimes bubble up inside, knowing that she simply _wanted_ to stay here in sorrow, that forgetting him was far more painful than what she felt now… even worse than seeing him dead in her dreams.

At least he was still there with her. And she could never let that go.

For the first few months, she'd had a recurring dream that he was still alive… that they'd _buried him alive_ … and, more than once, she'd rushed to his grave, pressed her ear to the ground, and held her breath.

Now, she didn't go there often at all. The healers had said it was for the best. But, it seemed to make no difference. Potions for depression, anxiety, dreamless sleep… Food tasted bland, her work felt unimportant more often than not, and her attempts at social events mostly ended in craving the solitude of her tiny flat, surrounded by books, blurring words on every page as her eyes watered, shifting out of focus.

A knock on her door shook her from her thoughts - she had been expecting Harry for breakfast - and she spit into the sink, watching water swirl down the drain, clearing her throat to call out.

"Come in!"

* * *

Ginny sat across from her at dinner, that night, Hermione still in her work clothes and Ginny in her practice uniform for Quidditch, having just left the field. The restaurant was Friday night crowded, and Hermione was never quite sure at first if she'd rather be lost in noise or silence, so she let herself fade as someone came by to refill their drinks. But then she knew Ginny had a lot to talk about, and she felt a bit lost as her friend began to speak, trying to resurface.

It was an hour before his name came up.

"How's it going with Duncan?" Ginny asked around a large bite of warm bread.

"I don't know," Hermione answered truthfully, stabbing at a piece of tomato in her salad, finding it hard, as usual, to work up an appetite.

"Well, didn't you see him last night?"

"Yes. But I went home alone and frustrated him."

Ginny scoffed and took another bite of her bread.

"That sounds bloody rude of him. You've been out, what, a couple of times?"

"At least a dozen…"

Ginny's eyes widened, and she stopped eating to stare across at Hermione.

"Oh."

"It's not that I don't like him…" Hermione's soft voice trailed off, and she sighed. "Ginny, I don't want to do this."

"What, go out with Duncan? So, just call it off-"

"No. Any of it. I don't want to pretend I'm fine and see other people…"

Ginny's face melted to an expression of thinly masked concern, and she took a few moments to finally speak again.

"I can't pretend to understand exactly how you feel."

Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry at dinner.

"But I care too much about you to see you just… stuck," Ginny went on, sniffing. "Harry, too. Sometimes he's okay. Sometimes he can't really cope with it. But he's… I mean it's different for him, innit? I know it doesn't help to tell you to try. Bloody healers don't understand what it's like."

Hermione opened her eyes again simply to stare down at the pattern of the tablecloth.

"I'm still taking my potions."

"Are you? That's good. But they aren't helping?"

"I don't know. Maybe it'd be even worse without them…"

She saw, in her periphery, that Ginny's hand had extended halfway across the table in her direction, and she knew that Ginny was worried… probably more than she was letting on. She really needed to pull herself together, she thought. But she was at war with herself, wanting to swim deeper and deeper in memories, yet unable to surface long enough to live.

"The Harpies put me up at a nice place in Holyhead tonight," Ginny started, and Hermione finally looked back up at her friend, "you know, since we've got practice so early before that game tomorrow. Why don't you come stay with me. We can order champagne and charge it to the team…"

Ginny attempted a smirk, but it came across more as a pitying grimace.

"Thank you… but I think I just need some time alone," Hermione said softly. "I'll be okay."

"I'm not gonna be an arse and say it'll all be alright, because I know it won't. But I do think it'll get better."

She wouldn't argue, if only because she didn't really have it in her to bother. Instead, she'd try to make an effort to get lost in work again, something she could manage to do when she really focused. She almost regretted that she had two full days before Monday. At least she'd be able revise her latest report, maybe finally get around to cleaning her flat. And she was comforted by habits and routines, for now, a list of calculated distractions creating order from darkness.

* * *

They often left him alone for hours and hours at a time. And, when they did come by with small bits of food and water, it was never one or two of them alone, but at least three at once. He wondered if he'd actually scared them with wandless, nonverbal magic, but it wasn't as if he had any idea why it had worked… how he'd been able to stun someone without touching his wand or saying a word.

But now, without a wand, locked in a square room with metal walls and no windows, no visible seams… he was seeing no other way out. He'd done it once. Maybe… maybe he could do it again.

He started by thinking back, trying to recall those early charms lessons from first year. Simple ones, he thought, and he could learn how to control it... assuming he'd be successful at all. But all he really had to do, when he felt the desperate hollowness creep up, threatening to make him give up, was think of his past, of what he'd been ripped away from and left behind. He had to do it… He had to make it back.

_Wingardium Leviosa! - You're saying it wrong._

The charm was in his head before he understood why… and then he was smiling. Her bossy little voice was all he could hear. He could still feel her wild hair brush his face as she'd sharply turned her head, and he remembered how he'd grimaced and rolled his eyes, back then.

Now, he actually laughed, a raspy, odd sound from his dry throat as he lay down on the rough, stone surface that was raised above the ground, the one on which he'd woken a month ago to find his whole life-

No. He wouldn't think of that. He closed his eyes and recalled her voice again. But, this time, much more recent, just minutes before that first kiss...

_Wasn't it absolutely brilliant? - He was amazing!_

He breathed deeply, lulled by his memories, and he could almost escape this place, run away in his mind to his bed at the Burrow, her small, cool hands on his skin. He let himself stay there, for just a little while… let himself remember.

_She followed him up the stairs to his room, and he was so relieved he didn't have to ask. He wanted her to stay, but he had no idea how to say the words. She must have been as nervous as he was, because once he'd closed his door and they were alone, he could see her trembling in the moonlight that was softly flowing through his open curtains._

" _I'm so sorry," she said. "So, so sorry."_

_They'd buried his brother that day. But he didn't want to talk about that now. He took a step closer, almost close enough to feel her breath on his face as she tilted her head back to look up at him._

" _You're here," he whispered. "I'm okay."_

_Stray tears slipped silently free from her shining eyes, rolling down her cheeks almost as if she didn't notice them. Maybe they'd cried too much these last few days. He wanted to look forward, instead of feeling trapped in grief. He wanted to hold her. But he had to be sure._

" _Can I… kiss you again?"_

_She nodded, giving no moment's hesitation between his question and her answer._

_He reached out to hold her face in one, large hand, studying the perfect lines and curves he'd memorised long ago. But he'd never been able to look for this long. He felt heat rise up the back of his neck, but he didn't look away. She reached up to wrap thin fingers loosely around his wrist, eyes never leaving his. And he ducked, closing the final distance between them as he pressed his mouth to hers._

He opened his eyes, tears brimming. That was enough. More than enough for one day. Swiping his knuckles beneath his eyes to dry them, he recalled the words he had to focus on, to bring to the surface through a whirlpool of rage and love and wild magic.

He sat up, spotting a small pebble that had broken loose from the old, stone floor, and he stared, unblinking.

_Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa._

There was no movement, not yet, but he hadn't expected there to be. It could take all he had, but he would give exactly that much. No less.

A noise outside the only door drew his attention across the room. Footfalls, voices. They were coming.

What if he could open that door? There were no locks he could see, no knobs or hinges visible. It was being opened with magic, alone, he assumed. What spell could it be, which lock, which shield, which wards were keeping him here? But he could start at the beginning, with another engraved memory… first year, as Filch had been coming down the corridor to find them, and he'd thought they'd be caught for sure.

_Oh, move over. - Alohomora!_

* * *

Hermione made her way through Saturday night's crowded pub, searching for familiar faces. The Harpies had won, and Ginny was out celebrating. As Hermione squeezed between a large group of wizards by the bar, she spotted the familiar back of Harry's head… and then, to her surprise, there was Duncan, sitting next to Ginny and in the midst of a conversation. They couldn't see her as she approached, and she began to overhear their words as she moved closer.

"But she's just so… distant when I'm with her, you know?" Duncan was saying. "She's your close friend, maybe you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know-"

"It's just… one minute she seems interested and the next I can tell she wants to be as far away as she can from wherever we are. It's bloody confusing. She's unpredictable. "

"Well, wouldn't _you_ be, after what she's been through?"

Ginny had stepped right up to _that_ line, and Hermione pushed forward to reach them in one quick stride.

"Been through?" Duncan asked, perplexed.

"Ginny."

Hermione's warning voice sounded out over Harry's conversation as well, and he turned to look at her as she stepped between Ginny's chair and Duncan's, staring down at Ginny, feeling her face heat up. Ginny studied her carefully, a bit surprised at Hermione's sudden appearance but clearly more confused by the specific tone of her interruption.

"Damn," Ginny said, reading her well. "You haven't told him?"

Hermione shook her head in a way that felt almost frantic, and she could sense Duncan standing up behind her.

"What's going on?" he asked, and Hermione shut her eyes with a swear beneath her breath.

"I won't tell him," Ginny insisted, but Hermione slowly opened her eyes again and shook her head.

"Go ahead. No point hiding it."

She moved around to take a seat on the other side of the table, wishing she could disappear through the floor but also knowing this was, on some level, for the best. As she stared down at the grain of the wood tabletop, she could feel Ginny's gaze on her for a long moment before she heard her voice again.

"My brother and Hermione were…"

Hermione swallowed, waiting for the words her friend would choose to describe something she had never been able to quite put into words herself.

"They grew up together, they were best friends with Harry... they were in love," Ginny finished, softly, "and he died, about six years ago now."

"Oh, God," Duncan said, sympathetically. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," Hermione answered, wishing she didn't sound so snappy. She'd never told him because she hadn't wanted him to know, maybe in part because it had felt like a confession, or because it had been too hard to face the words at all, and that wasn't his fault.

"Hermione," Ginny said, leaning across the table, "I'll get you a drink. What do you want?"

"Whatever you're having."

Ginny stood and left them, and Hermione tried not to move away as Duncan scooted his chair around the table, close enough to her that they could speak and not be overheard by Harry and the others who had returned to their own conversations on the opposite side.

"If you don't want me to be here, just say-"

"You aren't involved in this. It's my own problem."

There was a long pause during which she was sure he _would_ just leave. But he didn't. He was studying her, and she looked over sadly to meet his eyes.

"I wish you'd told me," he said, quietly. "I might have been a git to you by mistake. I didn't know what you were going through."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I know."


	2. 6 Years, 5 Months, 18 Days

**6 Years, 5 Months, 18 Days  
** **Saturday, 30 October 2004**

She wasn't waiting for him.

A little thunderstorm rolled, chanting _six years, six years_. He could easily lose hope, imagining what her life had been since he'd disappeared. No, since he'd _died_. She could be married, have sodding kids by now… He could choose to face the likely reality that she had moved on.

But, instead, he played a little game where he could feel her arms around him when he was finally free.

_Wingardium Leviosa._

He was lying on his back, ignoring stiff muscles and stinging scratches from tossing over in his sleep on rough stone. Something was happening soon, he knew… They'd talked about _her_ again, and he'd remained silent, holding back the million questions flowing through him, knowing it was better to wait, better to play the part of a weak, compliant hostage, let them let their guard down.

_Wingardium Leviosa._

He sat up and stared at his pebble on the floor, willing it to move with all his focus. But, it remained there, and he slowly closed his eyes.

_Windgardi-_

The door scraped open, and he jumped slightly as he opened his eyes again to stare across the room at the three men who walked through. He knew their names. He'd been paying attention. Graham - the one he had stunned during his capture, who was now mysteriously missing two fingers from his right hand. Isaac - an older wizard, tall and thin, with a peppered black and white beard and dark eyes. Charlie - a man who bore no resemblance to Ron's brother but had a rough, scarred face and sunken eyes, bald head and calloused hands… Today, Charlie was clutching the arm of a small girl with long, dark hair, who could be no older than early teens.

The door slammed shut, echoing loud as the girl flinched. Ron's heart beat faster, suddenly terrified that she was in danger, too. Maybe he'd been completely blind, maybe he wasn't the only one. How many others had they taken?!

"Weasley," hissed Charlie, a menacing grin slowly sliding into place as he tugged the girl forward. "This is Evelyn. And you can read her mind."

Confused, he stared at the girl for a long moment, her almond shaped eyes meeting his, and he felt a strange chill run down his spine. Who _was_ this girl? But there was one thing for sure, one thing he knew without a doubt. They'd made some kind of mistake.

"No, I can't."

Before he'd taken his next breath, Isaac's bony fist had pummeled Ron's cheekbone, causing him to stumble sideways, his left elbow slamming into the stone slab on which he still sat.

"You can," Isaac said, in that impossibly low voice that made Ron's skin crawl. "Show him."

Charlie roughly turned Evelyn around until her back was toward Ron, and Ron tried to sit back up straight, to see properly. He could taste metallic blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. But, all of a sudden, Graham reached out and tugged Evelyn's long hair over her shoulder, revealing a scar that had left a strip of her scalp bald in an upward, swirling line. And Ron understood, stomach sinking. _His_ arms. _His_ scars. Isaac was staring at them with a narrow glare, confirming what he'd guessed. They'd both been attacked by the same thing, and these men thought- But _why_? Why did they need him to read the mind of a teenage girl?

"We're going to ask her what we need to know," Charlie said, "and you're going to tell us what she thinks."

Okay. So, she must have been uncooperative in their previous efforts to force the information from her. Was he their last resort? What did she know that they needed so desperately? And what happened when he failed, because there was still the minor obstacle of Ron having absolutely no bloody idea how to read someone's mind, scars or no. What had Harry said about his lessons in Occlumency and Legilimency?

"When's your birthday?" Graham asked the scrawny girl who was still staring at Ron in an oddly disconcerting way.

She said nothing, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit, and Ron had the impression she was trying to block him from finding the answer. Fortunately for her, he had no idea how to find it, anyway. But, he had to do something. He stared back, betting on making it strongly appear that he was working hard to do as they had asked.

"Weasley." Isaac's stern face glared down at him, cast in shadow from his straggly hair falling forward, his head blocking Ron's face from the only light in the room, a single candle that had nearly burnt out.

"I'm not getting anything," Ron said, voice scratchy and raw. His head was pounding, and he was lightheaded from lack of food… dehydration. But he focused all he could on this, on something impossible they thought he could do. He had to string them along, at least until he could figure out how to-

Charlie grasped the back of Evelyn's robes, hard, almost lifting her off the ground.

"She's doing something to stop him, yeah?" Charlie growled, knuckles white as he gripped her robes tighter still.

"Maybe he really doesn't know how to use it," Graham suggested, watching Ron carefully.

"Get up," Isaac insisted, giving Ron no time to move before he yanked his arm and tugged him off his stone slab, forcing him to stumble to the ground on his knees. "Move her closer," and he gestured to Charlie who forced Evelyn to move forward, mere inches away from Ron. Her face was nearly level with his now, her sharp features lit in deep contrast as the light behind her flickered.

"When were you born?" Graham rephrased, voice lower and more urgent, his growing temper fully evident in his tense shoulders and face.

Ron was certain this would not work, that it would end in his face and body being pounded again by a fist or two, a forced fasting period of several days, as they'd done to him before when he'd asked a simple question, something he'd learned not to do unless necessary… or unless he'd made a mistake.

But, he put all he had into the task he'd been given, as impossible as it felt. The girl, he was realising, believed it could be possible, and that was enough to give him pause… to make him wonder…

He stared, unblinking, willing her words to the surface. And then, beyond anything he had hoped could happen, he heard it.

_...October..._

Like the faintest whisper through a long, echoing corridor. It was unclear, at best, but he could mold the distant sounds only he could hear into one word, to start. He forced his face to remain unphased and blank, though his heart was pounding.

_When's your birthday?_

He felt himself ask the question without speaking, and then her eyes narrowed fiercely. She was going to answer him, against her will.

_5th of October, 1991._

* * *

Hermione was standing in the middle of Duncan's flat, a glass of Firewhisky in her hand.

It had been a long, long time since she'd drank so much. Once, in a bittersweet time at the Burrow, shortly after Fred's burial, but… but if she let those memories swirl to life, she'd hear _his laugh_ and see his glistening eyes crease as he smiled at her, and she couldn't-

She squeezed her eyes shut and took another long sip of her drink.

The second time had been worse, much worse, and had lasted for months. June, July, August had vanished in a sea of unending, indistinguishable nights, mornings she hadn't seen, waking late into the afternoon to start again.

"Need another?"

Duncan appeared from the kitchen, eyes flicking down to her almost empty glass.

"No. Thank you," she said, hoping her smile looked less like a grimace than it felt. She knew what she was here for, and she suspected Duncan must as well. She'd only been here twice before, but never so late at night.

She wasn't going to move on if she didn't… move on. It was fortunate, really, that Duncan hadn't given up on her when she'd gone a month without speaking to him. But, their relationship - or whatever she could call it - had remained casual and mostly void of emotion, save that one conversation at the pub, about her past. She should probably be somewhat concerned with feeling nothing, but, instead, it made it just a bit easier to think she could do this… It was just a matter of choosing to take steps consecutively forward, instead of constantly fleeing backward.

"Want to sit down?"

"Can we go to your room?"

The words were out before she'd really thought them through, and he nodded, reaching to take her glass from her hand. He vanished through to the kitchen again, and she didn't follow, recognising his need to keep things clean and tidy - no clothes on the floor, no dishes in the sink, no books out of place.

At least he couldn't be more different than-

His hand extended in front of her, startling her out of a daze, and she took it, following him down the hall to his bedroom.

He let go of her as they crossed into his room, and she watched him walk around to light the lantern by his bed as she tossed her messy hair over her shoulder. It had grown so very long now, nearly reaching her waist. But she wouldn't think about why she hadn't cut it, though. She couldn't.

Duncan returned to her, and they stood at the foot of his bed, sheets neatly tucked in under his mattress.

"Ever taken someone's virginity before?" she asked, gooseflesh coating her skin. He kept his flat quite cold, she noticed, but the thick blanket on his bed looked warm enough.

"Once," he admitted, "a few years ago."

"Make that twice, after tonight."

"Are you _really_?" he asked, shocked. "You've never-"

"Don't make fun of me, or I'll change my mind."

She hadn't meant to snap so fiercely, but her words were unguarded, and she didn't have the strength to fix them, not when all she had was focused on doing what she thought must be the right thing. After tonight, she couldn't look as far back. Not nearly so far, anymore.

"No, I'm not," he assured her. "Just surprised, is all… especially after what Ginny told me about her brother-"

"Please." Her voice cracked on the word. "Don't ever talk about that. I can't."

"Sorry."

"Maybe we could… not talk much at all, if that's alright."

"Yeah, that's fine."

He reached for her arm, holding her elbow in his hand, and she let his face blur out of focus as he ducked to kiss her.

* * *

She was banging frantically on the door. Ordinarily, she'd have refrained from such nonsensical behaviour, peacefully waiting for Harry to come let her inside. She'd have felt too self-conscious, on any other day, of Harry's neighbours overhearing her being hysterical. But tonight was not an ordinary night.

Harry wrenched open the door, a look of urgent concern etched across his face.

"Hermione, what-"

" _P-Please_ , can I c-come in?"

"Why are you asking? Just Apparate in if you need to. What's wrong?"

He stepped back, and she crossed by him, shaking head to toe, tears coating her face and blurring her vision.

"I _slept_ with him," she choked, as Harry closed the door behind her.

He turned around to face her, blinking.

"Who?"

Her eyes narrowed to creased slits as she tried to catch her breath to answer Harry's completely absurd question.

"Duncan!" she screeched, a full octave above her normal range. "Wh-who do you think?!"

"I don't know…" Harry muttered, pushing up his glasses in that nervous habit sort of way he often did now when he was dancing around the mention of… _him_. "I'm sorry."

And then, it occurred to her, that Harry thought she was caught up in the past, just now… and she felt her throat constrict intensely.

"You thought I meant-" She couldn't swallow, and Harry's flat was spinning. "Oh my God, I know what you th-thought, and that's exactly wh-why I'm here and why-" She broke off to attempt a breath that turned immediately to a cracking sob. "I never slept with Ron."

Harry visibly swallowed at the sound of his name.

"I didn't think you had, honestly, but-"

"Oh God, Harry," she sobbed, "I m-miss him _s-so_ _much_."

Harry blinked a bit rapidly and nodded.

"I know. I know... I do, too."

"It was supposed to be him." She was shaking like she hadn't done in months. "It was always going to be him, and now-" Her voice broke again, and there was suddenly only one thing she needed. "Harry, where's his trunk?"

"No." Harry's voice was firm as he shook his head, but he was obviously more consumed now by sorrow and pity than actually threatening to stop her. And she knew he'd give in. "Hermione, you shouldn't-"

"I need it, _please_!" she wailed, losing track of her own tears, hardly feeling fresh waves coat her face.

For a long moment, Harry stared at her in silence, his own eyes watering and glistening in lantern light. But she begged him again with her gaze, hands violently trembling at her sides, and he gave her one, quick nod before breaking away and crossing past her, toward his room.

She could acutely hear the ticking of the clock on the mantle, her own ragged breath following a completely dissonant rhythm. And then, seconds later, Harry emerged once more, holding a small, wooden box, the same size as the jewelry chest she'd had as a young child, but it took her no time at all to recognise it. He handed it to her, and she thanked him with another meeting of their eyes, unable to speak and risk one more wracking sob, one that might not let her breathe again. And, clutching Ron's shrunken trunk in her arms, she turned around and disappeared into the loo, locking herself inside.

* * *

She was wearing his clothes. It was stupid and irrational and probably unhealthy, but she'd stripped naked, taken a hot bath, and pulled on one of his t-shirts and a hand-knitted jumper, deep blue and constantly bringing out the much lighter colour of his eyes, even now… even...

The moment that had really broken her was finding her own pyjama trousers crumpled at the bottom of the trunk, and she honestly couldn't remember why they were there, but it didn't matter. She'd pulled them on, and they still fucking smelled like him, if she closed her eyes, and it was all she could do to stop the unending flow of tears for long enough to try and clear her mind to a canvas of nothing. But, someone was trying to get her attention. She blinked slowly, and her eyes slid to the door.

"Hermione?" Harry was calling from outside the loo, his gentle knocking turning more insistent as she remained silent. She had to answer him, she knew, even though her body and her voice felt useless. She blinked again, and a hot tear rolled down her just recently dried cheek.

She managed to pull herself up and cross to the door, opening it to reveal Harry's face, creased with concern. His eyes darted down, for a moment, taking in the sight of Ron's clothes on her body. And she knew what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," she said, hoping to encompass the full scope of what those short words could mean.

"Don't do that. You know I understand. Just worried me how long you've been in there…"

She nodded and clutched the doorframe as Harry stepped back to let her out.

"Want a takeaway?" he asked, as she followed him slowly down the hallway toward the sitting room. "Thought I'd go out and grab something but didn't want to leave before I talked to you."

"Isn't it late?" she sniffed.

"Nearly midnight, but it's Saturday. There's fish and chips or that curry place we like."

"I'm not really hungry-"

"Curry it is. We'll share. You should eat something."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already standing by the door.

"Stay here," he added, and she sat heavily on the sofa. "I'll be back in a few."

* * *

She'd taken several bites, at Harry's insistence, and she supposed it was better to try than to think of her slightly nauseous stomach, ignoring the vague throbbing of her head from skipping too many meals.

But her thoughts swirled back to Duncan, after a while, unwillingly. She'd left him at his flat, and he'd not really asked her to stay over, anyway, but she still wasn't sure how she felt about leaving so quickly. She'd rather lock herself in her flat for the next few years than face speaking to him again, as impossible as she knew everything was going to be… but she didn't want to hurt him. He wasn't part of this, and it wasn't fair.

"I'm using him, and he knows it," she said, as Harry took a long drink of water. He shook his head and lowered his glass to the coffee table.

"You aren't, _really…_ "

"Harry."

She appreciated Harry's attempts to make her feel better, really… she did. She always had since… Well, they'd been the two people closest to… _him_. And they'd needed each other to cope, even when her raging tears had turned to angry words. Harry had never minded. They'd grown used to fighting over the years. But, right now, she knew the truth and had to face it. She probably shouldn't stick around like this, leading Duncan to believe she held anything more for him than a passing burden of needing to find a way to move on.

"Someone's got to be the first," Harry pointed out, slouching back into the sofa, next to her. "I know that sounds awful… but what else can you do?"

"I don't love him," she said, strong and clear.

"No one thought you did…" And Harry's eyes met hers as he shrugged. "Probably not even Duncan. Has he ever said it to _you_?"

"That he loves me?" She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "No."

"Do you want him to?"

"Not at all," she cringed, "but I thought I was trying."

They sat in silence for several minutes, and she was actually starting to feel a bit tired in that hazy sort of way that resulted from crying too much, sore eyes and heavy limbs. She tucked up her knees loosely to her chest, jumper sleeves falling down over the backs of her hands. She shook one hand free, only to smooth her palm absentmindedly over the opposite sleeve.

"I'd just give you his trunk, you know…" Harry said, very quietly. "You should be the one to have it, anyway, but the healers said-"

"You keep it," she cut in, voice a bit raw. "I know where it is, and you'll keep it safe."

It was part of the process, people kept telling her, to let go. She wasn't supposed to cling to his things, still sleep in his clothes and call up constant images of his face when she closed her eyes.

"I know you're right, anyway," she sighed, staring down at her hands. "I shouldn't keep doing this. But… honestly, sometimes I just feel so sure I don't want to move on, that it's better this way. I'd rather lie in my bed in his clothes and think about the past than try to be with someone else. That's terrible…"

"I've got his watch in my top drawer. Does that make me mental?"

Her eyes slid up to meet Harry's, and she found him softly smiling.

"No… or we're mental together." She managed a smile in return, leaning back to rest her head on the sofa cushion behind her as Harry nodded and stood to clean up their dishes.

* * *

It was hard to sleep with a black eye, fractured jaw and bruised ribs.

He probably could have avoided it, but he'd never have done it blindly. And that's what he was, at least partially blind to what the hell they were playing at. He'd feigned not being able to read her mind at all, even as that whisper of a voice had so clearly resounded inside his own head. And they'd punished him for it.

At least he knew they wouldn't kill him now he understood a big part of why they needed him.

He took a deep breath and winced from pain, and he decided it might be alright to let go, just a bit…

Why was he fighting?

He thought of Quidditch with Harry at the Burrow, long days lying in summer grass, or those last few weeks of a school year, afternoons by the lake, half asleep as Hermione read through a stack of books under the shade of a tree.

He thought of Hermione's wavering smile when she'd try to hold back a grin at something ridiculous he had said, some joke he'd only really made to make her laugh.

He recalled times when the three of them had shared a late snack in the Common Room, after waiting up for Harry to come back from private lessons, or those quiet nights when Hermione had taken Ron through more of the castle than was probably required for their Prefect rounds, and he'd kept his mouth shut because he'd only wanted to spend more time alone with her.

And then, at last, he let his mind linger on the memory of that second kiss, the way she'd clung to his shirt collar with both hands, her teeth grazing his bottom lip as he'd tightened his forearm low around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground again…

_Her tongue touched his lips, and he stumbled slightly backward, not meaning to startle her, but the backs of his legs hit the edge of his bed, and he was still holding onto her as she gasped into his mouth. Her face moved away enough for her to meet his eyes, and they both slowly smiled, a shy laugh escaping him before she bit her lip and kissed him again. He moved his trembling hands to the sides of her face, and she leaned her full weight against him, the tiniest moan floating out from her as he tangled three, long fingers into her hair._

_He couldn't stay like this much longer, with his neck bent to reach her and her whole body angled firmly along the front of him. As he bent his knees a bit, she broke away and pushed against his shoulders until he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled her into his lap. His heart was pounding in his ears, but she happily moved closer, brushing her cool fingers up his cheek and back down to his stubbly jaw._

_She pressed soft lips to his cheek, and his eyes slipped shut, his fingers crawling up the back of her neck, under layers and layers of curls. Her lips slid toward his ear, then down the curve of his neck, sniffing back tears as she pressed kiss after kiss to his warm skin._

" _You okay?" he whispered, because an ugly thought had occurred to him, and he didn't want her doing anything just for him._

" _Mmm." She lifted her head and nodded, and he believed her. Her eyes were warm and beautiful and staring right back into his own. "Could I…"_

_She paused, and her eyes flicked away from his, cheeks colouring a more vibrant shade of rose._

" _Is it alright if I stay up here tonight?"_

_Her question answered every last one of his, and one corner of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin. She found his eyes again, and her shyness faded somewhat, eyelids fluttering almost shut as he gently tugged a long curl of her hair._

" _Hoped you would," he admitted, and she grinned right back._

_She moved quickly after that, or so it had seemed, because all of a sudden her legs were around his waist, and his hands were spreading across her back as her lips parted, meshing with his, tongues meeting and a wave of indescribable pleasure flowing out from his heart to his limbs._

_He shifted around and held her against his chest, their lips breaking apart several times, laughter floating between them, until he was lying on his back, and she was lying half on top of him. Her hands moved up into his hair, and he felt gooseflesh spread from the back of his neck, across his shoulders and down his arms… one of which was now halfway inside the back of her shirt. He hadn't even meant to take things this far, but her skin felt so incredibly soft and warm and amazing, and she wasn't asking him to stop. He had a flash of a realisation that she wasn't wearing a bra, his hand spreading over nothing but skin between her shoulder blades. But, though it reminded him of how much he wanted her, that he had been dreaming of her naked body in his bed for months and months now, it also reminded him how close they were, not only in a physical sense, but in every other way._

_His shirt, her shirt… that was all that separated their upper bodies from one another, and her chest was currently flattened quite completely to his. In his dreams, this might have mostly been lust, that sort of drunken haze of feeling that took over all rational thought. But, in reality, it was so much more than that. He'd known this, of course, in that abstract way of finally admitting to himself that he was in love with her, and not just blindly infatuated, not even just highly respecting who she was as a person - though he was absolutely doing those things, too. But no, it was much bigger than that, much more all-encompassing._

_She pulled her lips away to take in a few short breaths, clear moonlight casting her face in contrast between blue-tinged highlights and dark shadows._

_He slowly smiled up at her, twisting a long curl around his finger again._

" _Never seen your hair this long," he said in a scratchy voice._

_She licked her swollen bottom lip, and he was almost too distracted for a moment to breathe._

" _You've seen me every day for almost a ye-" She interrupted her own words and cleared her throat. "For months, now."_

_His heart clenched at her mistake, as if she'd almost forgotten those weeks and weeks he'd spent apart from them, before Christmas. He had to talk through it, or he'd end up spiraling into an apology, knowing it didn't matter how many times she told him it was past now, done. It was the feeling of guilt that drove him, with or without her forgiveness._

" _Yeah, but… I've known you a long time, and you usually keep it a good bit shorter."_

" _Haven't thought much about it recently…"_

" _I know," he said, willing the sadness out of his voice, though it seemed to be there to stay. "I like it like this."_

 _She smiled sceptically at him, but she reached up at the same time to run her fingers through_ his _hair._

" _Is it strange," she started to say, staring at his head as her nails raked so gently across his scalp, combing through tangles of ginger, "that we've known each other as friends for so long and now…"_

 _Fear briefly gripped him, but the way she was looking at him… He'd never have let her catch him looking at_ her _like that, back when they were only friends…_

" _Dunno. It's good though, innit?"_

_Her eyes flashed to his so quickly he almost flinched._

" _Of course it's good! Much better than that, really…"_

_He smiled but studied her face, her creased forehead, knitted brows._

_"What?" he whispered._

" _I realised something, after we got the fangs from the Chamber of Secrets…" She shifted a bit to prop up on her elbow, her right leg and half of her upper body still overlapping his. "I really do think you're amazing, and I don't tell you enough."_

_He didn't have the most secure grasp on reigning in his emotions, just then, after all they'd been through… and part of him wished she wasn't staring at him so intensely as his eyes watered. This shouldn't be such monumental news - she and Harry were his best friends, and he had to know they thought he was worth enough to stick around for so many years. On top of which he knew that he was different now, had faced the fears and made some kind of peace with them. And this wasn't completely something she hadn't said before. Just a few hours prior, in fact. But, hearing her say it now, having her here with him in his bed, her hand in his hair, her soft eyes on his face…_

_This would have been an excellent time to tell her that he loved her, but the words were caught in his throat._

_He sniffed and tried to laugh, but it came out as a breathy sort of half-cry._

" _Sorry," he whispered, but she shook her head, still staring._

" _Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this," she whispered back, "to be with you?"_

_He smiled and risked blinking, relieved when no tears fell._

" _If it's anything like what it's been for me…" He trailed off and cleared his throat. "Best thing that's ever happened to me, when you kissed me."_

_Her eyes sparkled when she smiled back, and, maybe because it was the longest they'd ever looked at each other this close up before, maybe just because she wanted to be even closer, she lowered her head to his shoulder, turned so her nose pressed against the side of his neck._

" _If I'd known that," she said, "I might've done it a lot sooner."_

" _Me, too."_

_He gathered her somehow closer still, wrapping both arms around her, and she sighed as she laid her arm across his ribs, bending her elbow up to rest her palm loosely on the opposite side of his neck._

" _But we have all the time in the world now," she said in a sleepy, peaceful voice. "It's really over."_

" _Yeah," he said, holding on tight. "We've got the rest of our lives."_


	3. 6 Years, 7 Months, 8 Days

**6 Years, 7 Months, 8 Days  
** **Monday, 20 December 2004**

He'd begun to notice a pattern. They brought Evelyn by once a week. He hadn't realised it until the third time, when he'd started paying more attention to the days. And all through the week, silence, leading him to believe she wasn't even there, all the time. Between her visits, he heard nothing, except for the heavy footfalls of his captors when they'd come by every other day or so to shove a tray of stale food into his room.

Lost in hours of endless thought, he'd draw the hazy lines between assumptions, and he wondered… was Evelyn at Hogwarts, somehow getting permission to leave school grounds each weekend? Could one of his captors be her guardian? They'd never really hurt her in his presence, though he couldn't exactly call the way they'd treated her kind or patient.

He closed his eyes, thinking of the mundane questions they'd been asking her, trying to prove his answers true, though he hadn't given them anything, yet. He needed something more, perhaps a mistake… impatience to grow to frustration. He walked a thin cord between what he could physically take and what might be too much. His body was aching, stomach a hollow pit, hardly noticing hunger or thirst. They might not _want_ to kill him, but they'd put him in a six year fucking coma the last time they'd been frantic...

He tried to take a deep breath, but there was a painful stitch in his side from the last time he'd been beaten. At least he was always left alone to recover, whether or not it was ever their intention. And, eventually, he drifted in and out of disturbed sleep, dipping into nightmares, banging his fists raw on the rough stone of a dungeon while Hermione screamed in pain and fear above him. He'd tried to get to her then, when he'd been desperate. He'd tried wandless, non-verbal magic, and he had failed. What made him think he could do it now?

But then he'd float in semi-consciousness, moving hazily toward some peaceful memory. Today, he could see her holding his hand as they'd walked away from the Burrow, the morning after his brother's death. He recalled, as if his dream self was remembering, the way he'd woken an hour previous to find her still in his arms from the night before, light streaming through his window. Her warm body had been encased in his limbs and his blanket, the scent of her hair and her skin mingling with his in the sheets.

He hadn't been sure she was awake until she'd shifted to look up at him, finding his eyes and smiling shyly.

He'd wanted every day to start just like this, he had decided. Every day...

" _Hey," he whispered, unsure if she'd maybe had the thought the previous night to use a silencing charm on his room, as the sounds of his family walking about the house came muted toward them through the walls and floor._

_She mouthed a small hi back before licking her lips and shifting around again, rubbing her leg against his in the process. His mother's voice floated up the stairs toward Ginny, who was evidently awake and out of her room. She called back down, something unintelligible, and Ron listened carefully to see if he could hear his name._

" _Should I go?" Hermione whispered, propping herself up on her elbow and looking nervous._

" _Don't want you to," he mumbled, clearing his throat lightly._

" _But if everyone's awake, they're going to figure out I wasn't in Ginny's last night… if they haven't already."_

_She sat the rest of the way up, and he couldn't help the way his heart flipped pleasurably at the sight of her tousled hair and wrinkled shirt. He smiled fondly, still feeling the pull of warm sleep as she caught his eyes and pressed her lips together, cheeks colouring a beautiful shade of rose._

" _Ron. Your mum will kill us if she finds out I slept in your room."_

" _Sorry," he whispered back, still smiling. "I just really don't care right now."_

_Her lips twitched unwillingly into a small grin before she shook her head._

" _Do you think Harry stayed in Ginny's?"_

" _Maybe. And I'm sure they'd have covered for us."_

_He watched her studying him almost sceptically for a moment before he shrugged._

" _I'd be happy for them, you know," he said, pushing up to his elbows, finally awake enough to agree that they should probably work on an escape plan, especially given that he was hopeful she'd stay again._

" _Yeah?" she asked, attempting and failing to tuck a tangle of thick curls behind her ear._

" _Yeah."_

_He sat the rest of the way up, slightly startled when their faces ended up so close together, but he didn't move back, and neither did she._

_Their first kiss had been blinding, hearts pounding, in the middle of war. Their second had been in the dark, late at night, and had ended in his bed… where they still were, now in the brilliant light of morning. He could see her face so much more clearly today, every feature and beautiful colour. This was different… This was somehow so much more real and solid, like there was really nothing to hide behind, no desperation, no moonlit darkness._

_And though it made it so much more difficult to imagine going through with it, he also felt that he simply had to, like this was the moment he would no longer be able to wonder if he'd dreamt it all up…_

_He lifted his lightly trembling hand to her neck, tilted his head and pressed his parted lips to hers. For a short moment, she didn't move… but then he felt her comprehend what was happening, and she leaned into him with a soft moan, one of her hands flattening to his chest and smoothing up to grip his shirt collar. Her reaction was so perfectly relieving that he grinned against her mouth, his thumb absently brushing her cheek as he brought his other hand up to mirror his first._

_It was so gentle and yet so full of longing that he couldn't imagine ever stopping-_

_Someone knocked softly on his door, and they broke apart, Hermione's eyes going wide. He put a finger to his lips, holding her gaze for a moment before he reached around for his wand, finding it on his bedside table where he must have put it in the night. With a quick swish and a whispered "Muffliato," he scooted to the edge of his bed and stood, turning back and reaching for her hand to pull her up in front of him._

" _Apparate to the shed," he suggested, and she nodded, collecting her own wand from his table, quickly turning on the spot and vanishing with a crack._

* * *

Ginny was stretched out along Harry's sofa, in her Quidditch uniform, feet propped up on the arm, while Hermione sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, scribbling out a revision to her latest report.

"You know," Ginny said around a yawn, "as much as I love the Harpies, I'm a bit relieved I've got the whole week off."

"I'm sure Harry will be, too," Hermione said, looking up from her work to smile at Ginny who returned it with a smirk.

"How's Duncan?"

Hermione's smiled faded.

"What?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow in question, and Hermione sighed.

"I sort of… hadn't got around to telling you," Hermione admitted. "I split up with him."

"Oh. When?" Ginny asked gently as she sat up on the sofa to fully face Hermione, her expression softening a bit, apologetically.

"It's been a while…"

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Hermione shrugged. "I don't think he was that broken up about it. He probably didn't expect me to stick around."

Silence fell around them for a few minutes before Ginny thankfully opted to change the subject.

"Will you be coming to the Burrow for Christmas?"

"I'm not sure yet… have to see what my parents want me to do and how much work I've got."

She immediately expected Ginny's predictable indignation over her attempts to work on a holiday, but it didn't come. The truth was that she felt too fragile just now to risk being in the Weasleys' house. Trying to move on had set her back, in some ways. And, to be in that house, to feel the ghost of his presence in every room… She'd gone there the year before last, narrowly resisted climbing the stairs to his bedroom… and had spent two days locked in her flat afterward.

"Well," Ginny said, as she stretched and stood from the sofa, "I'd better shower and change before Harry gets back with dinner. Stay and join us."

"That's alright," Hermione said, shutting the open books scattered around her and starting to pack parchment and quills into her bag. "I've got an early morning tomorrow. I should get home."

* * *

Rain was tapping on Hermione's bedroom window, and she was wide awake, watching the reflection of moonlight in the rivulets flowing down the glass. She seemed to go in phases, exhausted and sleeping too much for several weeks, then insomnia would take over. Recently, she'd buried herself even more than usual in her work, and maybe she just had too many lists and facts and memorised lines of text flowing through her mind to turn it off.

There were times when she felt lost in an endless sea, only barely drifting above the waves, and she'd so easily fall backward. She recalled her overworked third year at Hogwarts, one embarrassing night when she'd actually cried for no reason, fortunately alone in her dormitory, surrounded by stacks and rolls of notes from six of her subjects at once. Maybe the Time Turner had frayed her more than she was ever willing to admit, even now.

She considered the little things that had made an impact, the ones that had burned permanent places in her memory, like a quiet night after Prefect rounds when she'd been revising in the Common Room after everyone else had gone to bed except… except for Ron, who'd been sitting on the floor with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows. She'd dipped her quill in too much ink, sighing heavily as she'd dripped a large, black smudge over the end of her last sentence, and he'd silently reached up to hand her a chocolate frog. The only time she ever really ate sweets was when she was feeling overwhelmed. She'd never told him this, but she'd taken the frog and let her fingers brush his knuckles more than was necessary.

She had Harry. She had her family. She had Ginny and the rest of their friends. She knew they cared for her, even loved her. But…

He had been more. God, he still was, really. She still smiled when she thought of how they had been, the way his ears would go red sometimes, the way he would rub the back of his neck when he was nervous. He would tease her, roll his eyes, tell her to stop working so hard. But he knew her. And he'd sit up an extra hour, half-reading a Quidditch magazine, just to give her chocolate without saying a word.

He was gone but not completely. She clung fiercely to it, constantly battling her own obsession with the past. But, sometimes, it gave her a kind of peace, looking back. As much pain as she felt to have lost him physically, she had a sort of confidence in what they'd said, how they'd been those last few days. It had been so much more than fancying a best friend. And she struggled with deeply knowing he never would have left her, had he been able to make that choice.

He _wouldn't…_ right?

Whenever she felt that shadow creep up, clouding her memories with doubt, she wondered if it was some subconscious attempt at cutting the last remaining threads, the ones she held in a tight fist. _Maybe it would not have lasted, after all._ But she knew that all she had to do, to crush those doubts, was to remember.

_She was standing at the back of the Burrow's garden shed, in her pyjamas, with a covert view out the dusty window toward the front of the house, silently praying that Ron wasn't currently being harshly lectured on decency and improper sleeping arrangements… He hadn't been able to impart her with the details of his plan, assuming he had one at all, beyond simply getting her out of his room for long enough to get rid of whoever had come knocking._

_But then, like a calming beacon, his sun-glinting copper head emerged as he stepped down from the front door, pausing to yawn and stretch. She had to wonder if he was putting on some kind of act for anyone who could see him as he came to find her, and it made her stomach flip and her lips curl up into the wavering hint of a grin. He continued on, widely circling the garden until, at last, he approached the shed and nonchalantly wrenched open the door, blue eyes sparkling as they met hers._

" _Hey, sorry," he said, shutting the door behind him and walking across the shed toward her. "It was Mum, but don't worry, it's fine. Ginny told her you were sleeping in, and Harry did the same for me."_

" _She thinks I'm still in Ginny's room?"_

" _Well, no. Not now." He scratched the back of his neck before forcing his hand into his tightly filled pocket and pulling out her beaded bag. "After she came by to check on me, she knocked on Ginny's door, and we had to change the story. Harry must have read my bloody mind because he said he'd seen you walking around outside."_

_He handed her the bag, and she blinked at him._

" _Thought it'd be more believable if you changed out of your pyjamas, so I nicked this from Ginny's for you after Mum left."_

" _Oh. That was good thinking."_

" _Honestly?" He sighed as she reached into her bag and fished out a clean shirt and jeans. "I'm not really up for all the sneaking around. I'm thinking of just telling everybody to bugger off."_

_Her eyes flashed up to his, and she almost glared in disbelief._

" _Your mum will hate me."_

" _She would never. Especially not if I tell her… well."_

_He paused and ran a hand across his jaw, and she watched a deep blush creep up his neck._

" _What?" she asked at a near whisper._

_His eyes held her gaze for a silent second, and she saw something change in an indescribable way._

" _I'm in love with you."_

_Her grip loosened automatically, and she dropped her bag and clean clothes to the floor._

" _Sorry," he said roughly. "Shit. I wanted to say it last night, but-"_

_She gasped a half-laugh, half-cry, cutting him off as she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed her watery eyes shut. He ducked his head closer to hers, sucking in a surprised breath as he wrapped his own arms around her waist, burying his face in her hair._

" _I love you, too," she whispered into his ear, and she felt him laugh more than she heard him._

_She pressed her nose to his neck and closed her eyes, consumed by the feeling of his hands moving up and down her back and his warm breath against her temple. She was going to burn it into her mind, the way he'd said those words to her, she knew it. She could not help replaying it, even just then, as if his words still echoed off the walls._

_At last, she loosened her grip around his neck, but only to run her hands through his hair and pull her face back to find his eyes. They were shining, and he was smiling, and she honestly couldn't believe they were finally here._

" _When did you know?" She heard her own small, shaky voice between them, and she knew she was asking a selfish question, but she hoped, from the look that flashed through his eyes, that she was right to assume it was actually quite some time ago._

" _You don't want me to answer that," he said, a bit darkly._

" _Why not? I_ did _ask…"_

_He gently shook his head and sighed, spreading a hand across her mid-back._

" _Too long ago."_

_Her heart was fluttering, and she wasn't going to make him answer her, but she wished that he would. Apparently, her expression was enough to silently ask again, however, and he tugged the corner of his mouth up._

" _Sorry," he said in a low voice, and she shook her head automatically, captivated. "It's been so long I honestly don't know exactly when I figured it out, but… I definitely could have told you last year, in the hospital wing, but I had a bloody girlfriend."_

" _You said my name, in your sleep."_

" _Yeah," he grinned, flushing only slightly. "I know."_

" _I thought you didn't remember," she grinned back, and he shrugged, hands sliding down to her waist. "I don't know how long it's been for me, either," she added, "but… years."_

" _Really?" His eyes widened a bit, and she nodded, moving her hands down from his hair to his shoulders. "Bloody idiots."_

" _Hey!" she laughed. "Speak for yourself." He chuckled back, shaking his head._

" _I should have kissed you the first time I seriously thought about it… We were on rounds, in fifth year - do you remember this? - and you were all worked up about Umbridge, so I told you to calm down, and you hit me."_

_She stared up at him, waiting for the rest of the story, only to realise he had finished._

" _That's it?"_

" _Yeah," he laughed. "I thought… I'd really like to just drag her into one of these empty classrooms and snog her. And then I couldn't concentrate on anything else you said, because my heart was beating in my ears til we got back to the tower."_

" _I thought about it on rounds, too," she admitted, "particularly when we'd catch other students snogging in a broom closet or that one time in the Astronomy Tower."_

_His eyes darted between hers, and he licked his bottom lip._

" _One time Harry was really late coming back from a meeting with Dumbledore," he said, "and you wanted to wait up for him, and I almost convinced myself you just wanted to stay down in the Common Room with me for longer. Figured I was wrong later, though."_

" _You weren't."_

" _Yeah, bloody idiot, remember?"_

_He slid his hands up her sides, and she knew he hadn't even meant to, but his palms brushed the outer edges of her breasts, and she lightly gasped as he quickly let go of her. She watched him swallow as she dropped her hands from his shoulders, and she thought he might be on the point of apologising when she spotted Percy, walking across the garden, through the dirty window behind him._

" _Percy's outside," she said quietly._

_Ron turned to glance over his shoulder._

" _Guard the door so I can change," she added, and he nodded before crossing the room and reaching for the handle._

" _Stay inside!" she added quickly._

" _Huh?" He glanced back over at her, a look of nervous confusion flashing across his face._

" _How suspicious will it look if you're just standing outside in front of the door?"_

" _Oh."_

_He rubbed the back of his neck, and her heart was pounding a bit, in the most amazing way._

" _Why are you in the shed, anyway?" he added, mouth tilting into a small, sideways grin. "We didn't think through this whole story…"_

" _It doesn't matter. Just turn around so I can change," she laughed, and he nodded, still smiling, but a suspicious flush was creeping up his neck toward his cheeks._

_He stood there with his back toward her, incredibly still and silent, as she reached for the clothes she had dropped, backing away from the window's view. It was funny, really, how just standing there in the same room as him, stripping down to her knickers, was raising her temperature and making her think of things she really ought not to think about right now. An exhilarated part of her actually wanted him to turn around and move… move much, much closer. She could imagine his hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck-_

_She was breathing way too erratically in the silence, and she realised he could hear her… could hear everything. The soft sounds of cotton dropping to the floor, the rustle of her jeans as she pulled them on._

_Swallowing, she attempted to compose herself as she stuffed her pyjamas into her bag and approached him._

" _Okay, let's go back," she whispered in a shaky voice._

_He nodded and reached for the door handle without turning around. Tugging it open, they found that Percy had crossed to the far, opposite side of the garden and was filling a basket with something, presumably on an errand assigned by his mother. As they exited the shed, Ginny emerged from the house in her swimming costume and shorts, and Hermione really didn't feel much like going back inside the house. Did it really matter, now? He loved her. He loved her. She didn't want to talk to anyone else._

" _Actually," she said, reaching for Ron's hand, "could we go for a walk?"_

" _Yeah, sure," he said, glancing down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes. And they walked across the fields, summer sun warming their skin, the beautiful hint of an impending thunderstorm swirling in the distant, dark gray clouds._

* * *

He was on his knees, a rough hand gripping his hair too tight, face to face with Evelyn. Her dark eyes were narrowed almost to slits as she tried to resist. They'd brought her by every day this week, ruining his logic from before… unless…

He swallowed, working on avoiding a single flinch of his facial features.

Unless it was Christmas.

"Give her a real one, this time," said Mathilda, the tall, sandy-haired witch who was standing behind Ron, her sharp voice reverberating slightly off the steel walls.

Graham's chapped lips curved just slightly upward before he spoke.

"Where'd your father hide our gold?"

Ron's eyes darted for a split second. Now _this_ was going somewhere.

So, he finally had their motive.

He watched as Evelyn's hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, and his eyes locked on hers again, searching. If he could find the answer to their question, he'd be at a crossroads. They might deserve to know, or they might be taking advantage of holding two people fucking hostage for years… He stamped down his spark of rage and focused, _thinking_ of his own question, hoping she'd hear him again.

_Why did your father hide the gold?_

Her face twitched, and he tried hard not to blink. Mathilda's hand tightened painfully in his hair. They were growing impatient.

_Why did your father-_

But _there_ was that hollow whisper, like before, and he froze.

_Wanted it… wanted it all._

Bits and pieces were making sense, and he had to think quick. Somehow, her father had been involved in something that had ended with his possession of what should have belonged to these people, to his captors. Had they been part of a heist, together? Or had he simply stolen from them? His next question materialised, carefully.

_Where did your father get the gold?_

Evelyn's eyes flashed between his, and she made the tiniest sound, like a strangled whimper.

_Department of M-Mysteries._

The little voice was slurred and stuttering this time, as she tried so very hard to resist. But he was close now. So, so close.

_Why did he keep it all for himself?_

She closed her eyes, and Graham grabbed the back of her robes.

"Oi!" he shouted, and she winced, eyes popping open again. But Ron focused all he had on trying not to blink, searching for the answer. It came so softly, he almost missed it.

_Not for him. I made him do it._

Her words rolled around in his head as he tried to make sense of them. When had this crime been committed? He'd been here six and a half years, he guessed, which… which made her merely six or seven years old, if the crime had even been fresh when they'd taken him. How had a young child convinced her father to take what didn't belong to him, to double cross his companions just for her?

A thin man, Ian, who had been standing in shadow by the back wall, slowly approached them.

"I told you he was rubbish. This won't work."

"He's going to do it," Mathilda insisted, "or we'll kill him, won't we, Graham?"

"Little bitch," Graham spat, ignoring Mathilda's question. "It's her fault Alcott's dead. We could have tortured the bastard and learned all we needed, years ago."

"She knew he was weak," Ian said, in a monotone voice that made Ron's jaw tighten with fear.

"Answer the goddamn question!" Graham roared. "Where the fuck did your bastard of a father hide our gold?!"

But Evelyn's eyes remained fixed on Ron's, and he felt, for the first time, that she was really, truly fighting back. She was searching his mind, trying to find a way in. Could she _do_ that? He'd been operating under the clueless assumption that he could read _hers_ only because of the placement of her scars, over the back of her head. His own scars, shimmering in swirls around his arms, might not grant her the same power.

But what if it didn't work that way? Sod it, how did anyone know how the hell this really worked?

"Tell us what she's thinking!" Mathilda demanded, fist clenching somehow tighter in his hair.

But he wasn't ready. He couldn't. He knew too little to risk it and would be worthless to them once they had all they needed from him. Not yet.

"I can't. It's not working."

He expected violence, but the blow to the side of his head was sharper than he'd anticipated, and he stumbled sideways, a chunk of his hair ripped out from Mathilda's hand still clinging on tight. She opened her fist and wiped her hand on her robes as he felt thick blood trickle down the side of his face. This one was worse than before. And in Mathilda's other hand he saw the object that had struck him - a bare razor blade, with one side wedged into a piece of rough wood.

His vision blurred slightly, and he fell the rest of the way to the floor as Mathilda scoffed with disgust. Ian stepped forward to take ahold of Evelyn, ushering her toward the door.

"Bern says to leave him a plaster when he bleeds that much," Graham said roughly to Mathilda.

"Thinks I've got endless medical supplies, does he?"

"You kept him alive all those years while he wasn't conscious-"

"Yeah," she scoffed, "and stealing Muggle IVs isn't the same as potions and plasters from a locked and inventoried fucking room at St Mungo's."

"Just give him the plaster, Mathilda," Graham said sharply. "If he dies on our watch, Bern'll kill us."

"I can't be seen in Diagon Alley to buy more," she seethed, before she complied, reaching into her cloak pocket and produced a short piece of clean cotton, dropping it hastily to the floor by Ron's head and exiting through the door just as it opened. "Come on," she shouted back, and Graham followed immediately, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

"One week's mandatory suspension."

Hermione walked through the door to Harry's flat as he held it open for her, catching Ginny's shocked gaze as she made her way to the sofa and collapsed onto it.

"What?! What did you do?"

But Hermione closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back cushion, knowing Harry would explain. Her head was pounding, and all she wanted was a drink and bed.

"She broke into the Auror archives and stole Ron's case file," Harry said, and she could hear thinly veiled amusement in his voice. He was probably grinning, if Ginny's scoff was any indication.

"Why?!"

"They've re-opened the case on Archie Wofford."

Just hearing his name from Harry's mouth had reignited the fire, and she opened her eyes again, so quickly forgetting exhaustion. The man who had killed Ron, six and a half years ago. The man she'd probably have murdered herself had they let go of her, had the Aurors not held her back when Harry had rushed forward, slamming his fist into Archie's face. God, that memory almost made her smile. But she wasn't quite ready for that yet.

"Bloody hell," Ginny said, voice scratchy and filled with those recognisable emotions, the ones Hermione felt running thickly through her blood.

"Apparently he was caught saying something to another prisoner about gold," Harry added.

"Gold?" Ginny questioned, sitting down on the armchair as Harry moved closer.

"Now they think he may have been involved with other crimes."

"No surprise," Ginny sighed. "But isn't he in Azkaban for life?"

"I don't know," Harry winced. "They're bringing him in."

"To the Ministry?" Ginny's eyes widened as she glanced from Harry to Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione said shakily, "and I've got to be there."

"How?"

"Haven't figured that part out yet, but I will, won't I."

"I'm actually glad you stole that file," Harry admitted, and Ginny raised a sharp eyebrow at him. "And, if I had to bet, you made a copy before they caught you, and it's in your bag right now, disguised as something else."

This was true, and she knew she didn't have to answer him.

"I never thought they'd lock me out like that," she sighed. "I should at least be allowed access through you, Harry. I was there. My name's all over it."

"You're right," Harry said, collapsing onto the sofa next to her.

"So…" Ginny began softly, when the other two fell silent, "what happens now? How do we get Hermione in for the trial?"

Hermione's eyes flashed over to Ginny's, holding her gaze as she slowly smiled.

* * *

It had been hours and hours since they'd last come by to change the rusted bucket they left with him as a toilet… and to give him half a glass of murky water to drink. But he'd chugged it down, his temple and the side of his face stinging from where he'd been sliced open. The plaster they'd left him just barely wrapped around his head, just enough to secure with a tiny knot, after four failed attempts, and blood was caked in his beard, which had grown quite unruly by now. He hardly recalled what it felt like to have a shaved face, smooth skin.

Now, all he wanted to do was sleep. More than that, he wanted to disappear in memories. He imagined that he wasn't really here, not completely, because so much of him was locked away in the past. He knew, and he kept on doing it. It was the only way to go on. And it was working, most of the time.

It worked better when he wasn't hurting, when he wasn't brought back so fiercely to his reality by searing pain.

He could try, anyway. Those days… those days he held in his mind like sparks of energy, memories twisting until he had to rustle them back together into what they had really been. Sometimes he'd dream too deeply, fastening a fantasy to a memory, weaving them into each other.

He looked back on that second day, the way she'd taken his hand as they'd left the shed, turning away from the house to be alone, together. They'd gone for a walk, he'd already told her he loved her. He recalled the feelings that had fallen over him after that. He'd wanted to spare her from his mother's lecture, had she found them together in his room, but he was too consumed with having what he'd wanted, with being so fucking lucky, that he really didn't want anything in the world to hold them back. He'd started having ridiculous thoughts about moving somewhere else together, even sleeping outside in the ruddy tent if they had to. His life had been making sense in a way that it never had done before. All he'd wanted was to spend every second he had left of his life with her. Bloody hell, he hadn't known he'd have so few. That she'd think-

But he always came back here, didn't he. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, to silence the alarm as it blared louder and louder at the back of his mind.

If he found her, what then? If he managed to escape this place, everything would be the same with Harry, wouldn't it. His best friend. God, he missed Harry. He missed their days together, even the ones that had looked cloudy and dark before. He missed Harry's sodding _voice…_ But Hermione.

Nothing would be the same, would it.

He missed every single fucking thing about her. He missed the way she smelled, the way her skin felt against his fingers. He missed her little smiles, the ones she only gave to him, the ones he saw in his bed, in the dark. He missed the way she held onto him, the way she touched him and kissed him, like she was desperate for him. He missed that feeling of awe, disbelief that she felt this way for _him_. And he wasn't going to get that back.

She'd actually _loved_ him. _Had_ done. Once. Had done, before he'd lost so many years, left her alone to find someone else, to forget him.

If he ever saw her again, he _knew_. He knew he couldn't get her back the way they'd been. It was over.

He closed his eyes, trying to force depression, useless negative repetition, from his mind. But it felt like an impossible climb.

But _maybe_.

Maybe was all he needed.

Maybe he could see her smile, her beautiful face as he walked toward her. Maybe he could hold her hand, just for a moment. Maybe she'd let him kiss her cheek - it had been so long, and she would still care for him, no matter what had happened in between. Maybe she'd let him hold onto her for a bit longer than a friend should.

Maybe that would be enough.

_Wingardium Leviosa._

He stared up at the steel ceiling overhead, recognising that his hands were shaking. They almost didn't feel like his own, anymore. He was cold, but it hardly penetrated his skin. He blinked, hairs standing up along his forearms for some reason-

And then, he saw it.

The pebble from the floor was hovering in midair, directly over his face. It took him several seconds to comprehend what was happening, and then, his lips curled up into a smile. He stared at what he had done - the small rock was a beacon, a blinding light of hope.

His smile broke into a laugh, and his eyes watered as he thought again of home.


End file.
